Nymphadora Tonks jerked awake, breath hitching, heart thudding against her ribs like it was trying to break out. Pale morning light sliced through the curtains in cruel, narrow bands, striping the sheets like bars.
Already.
She screwed her eyes shut, desperate to hold on to the dream before it slipped away completely. It was already crumbling—his voice, his touch—but the warmth still lingered, faint and fading. Fingers had brushed the hair from her face. Lips had kissed her forehead.
"Sweet dreams," he'd whispered. A voice like dusk. Like silk over skin.
For one foolish second, she'd believed it. Believed someone might actually care. That she might matter. But she knew better. He wasn't real. Just another lie her brain had stitched together in the dark, some half-remembered kindness dragged up from nowhere. Just a ghost. And Merlin, she had enough of those.
She stared up at the ceiling, eyes dry but sore. The dream had felt safer than anything she'd woken up to in weeks. Like something she'd once had—if she'd ever really had it at all.
She didn't move. Couldn't. Curled under the blanket, clinging to the last bit of warmth her bed could give. Because once she moved, the thoughts would come. They always did.
What are you even doing?
Is this who you are now?
Proud of yourself, are you?
She turned her face to the side, as if that might shut them out. It never worked. Her throat tightened. The air felt thick, heavy with everything she didn't want to think about. Everything she never said.
Eventually, she sat up with a groan, blanket sliding off her shoulders, skin prickling at the sudden cold. She looked down at herself and felt—wrong. Like the body wasn't hers. Like she'd borrowed it from someone and forgotten how to give it back. She didn't feel like a person anymore. Just… a shell. Something empty, shaped like a girl.
Coins glinted on the bedside table, catching the morning light. Galleons. Sharp, cold, accusing. She swept a few into her bag; the metal bit at her fingers. The clink echoed, too loud in the silence. Every coin was a reminder. A cost. A part of her was sold off, bit by bit. And for what? Rent? Food? The illusion of control?
She stepped back, and a few coins slipped from the edge, scattering across the floor.
She didn't bother picking them up.
Let them rot.
In the bathroom, she didn't look at the mirror straight away. Didn't need to. She already knew what she'd see.
When she finally lifted her gaze, the reflection blinked back—blonde hair, bright blue eyes, skin warm and golden. A lie. A mask. Not a scrap of the girl who used to laugh too loudly, fall over her own feet, or charm her hair bubblegum pink for no reason at all.
Just armour now. Just camouflage.
She was sixteen. That's what the world said. Sixteen. A kid.
She didn't feel like one.
Not after thirteen.
Not after the surgery.
Not after the silence that came after—the kind that pressed in from all sides and never, ever left. She could still smell the clinic. Remember the way the air felt like it had stopped moving altogether. Remember the look on her mother's face—blank, untouched, like she wasn't really there.
Tonks's hand drifted to her stomach. Flat now. Always would be. Her mother had made sure of that.
"It's better this way," Andromeda had said, voice clipped and decisive.
But Tonks hadn't believed her.
The ache never left. Neither did the guilt.
She never got to say goodbye.
The waiting room at St Mungo's murmured faintly with low conversation, the swish of robes, and the occasional cough. It smelt of antiseptic and something dry and papery, like old parchment left too long in the sun. Tonks sat in the corner, knees drawn together, hands clenched tight in her lap. Cold sweat clung to her palms. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else.
"Is there a Nymphadora Tonks here?"
The healer's voice cut through the air like a Severing Charm. Tonks flinched. The name alone was enough—a slap across the face. She hated it. No one called her that. No one but—
"Yes!" came her mother's voice, brisk and commanding. Andromeda was already on her feet, chin lifted, eyes scanning the room until they landed on her daughter. "Come on, Nymphadora. It's time."
Tonks didn't move.
Something in her had locked up entirely. Like her limbs had forgotten how to function. She stared at her hands—pale, trembling, useless. Her vision blurred, and tears slid silently down her cheeks. She didn't bother wiping them away.
The shame was a living thing. It pulsed in her chest like a second heartbeat.
You let this happen. You agreed. You gave up.
Andromeda marched closer, each click of her heels a warning. "What's wrong now?" she said, tone clipped.
Tonks opened her mouth. Nothing came. Then finally, a whisper, barely more than breath. "I… I changed my mind."
Her mother's fingers closed around her wrist, firm and cold. "Nymphadora, we've been over this."
That name again. It burnt.
"I can't," Tonks breathed. "I don't care what it takes. I'm keeping the baby."
The words cracked as they left her mouth, broken but laced with iron. Grief laced with grit.
Andromeda's expression didn't soften. If anything, it hardened. "Don't be ridiculous."
"This isn't your life," Tonks said, louder now, her voice rising and wobbling at the same time. "You don't get to decide. You don't get to erase her."
"Stop it," Andromeda snapped. Sharp enough that people looked round. Then quieter, colder, aimed like a curse: "That boy ran the moment he found out. You want to ruin your future over that?"
The words struck like a blow.
He ran. Of course he did. She'd known it already. But hearing it said aloud made it real. Solid. Brutal. Shame wrapped tighter around her like vines. She couldn't breathe past it.
Andromeda reached for her wand.
And Tonks… didn't fight.
Not properly.
Something flickered in her chest—some final scrap of resistance—but it was smothered by the weight of it all. Fear. Grief. Exhaustion. Her feet moved, though she couldn't feel them. Her legs carried her forward. She let herself be led.
The corridor stretched ahead like a tunnel, grey and too bright, swallowing her up with every step.
I'm sorry, said something inside her. But there was no one left to hear it.
She stood at the sink, fingers curled white around the edge, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The overhead bulb flickered, throwing harsh light and deeper shadows across her face. Her cheeks were hollowed, eyes ringed with something darker than sleep.
She looked like she was halfway between two worlds. Like she'd wandered out of one and hadn't quite stepped into the next.
Maybe that's what she was now. Caught between.
Her chest ached—not with magic, not even with anything she could name. It was a dull, endless throb, like something in her had been scooped out and left hollow. The sort of pain that didn't bleed but never healed, either.
She tried to breathe. In. Out. Count. Steady.
But the memory pressed in.
His voice, cool and faraway, like he'd already turned his back.
"It's just… too much, Tonks. I can't… I'm sorry."
Like she was a mistake he regretted.
Then the room again. The clinic. White, sterile, final. Nothing soft. No one was speaking. Just the cold hum of magic and the rustle of paper and gloves and robes. Just silence.
The grief slammed back into her chest like a Bludger. Her hands shook.
She gritted her teeth against it. Gulped a breath. Another.
Then—without thinking—she dropped the glamour.
Let it fall. All of it.
Magic stirred round her in slow, smoky coils, and with it, the glamour melted away. Her real self surfaced.
Hair clung to her neck—mousy brown, damp with sweat, flat and lifeless. Her face, scrubbed of illusion, was young, yes, but worn in the way people stopped noticing. Eyes dull. Not empty, though. Not quite. A flicker remained. Something stubborn. Something that refused to be put out.
She looked… ordinary.
Unremarkable.
Invisible, maybe—but not to herself. Not anymore.
This is me, she thought. This is what's left.
Most people hadn't seen her true face in months. Possibly longer. She wasn't even sure she'd recognise it if it hadn't been staring back at her now. She'd worn so many versions of herself—sleek blondes, fiery redheads, curves in all the right places, eyes that sparkled and teased. Every face a performance. Every change was a barrier. A charm against being ignored. A lie to convince herself she was the one in control.
But lately… it had stopped working.
The transformations no longer felt like power. They felt like noise. Like more clutter in a room already too full. The more she shifted, the more hollow she felt. As though every new face only reminded her of what she'd lost.
And what had she been trying to find in the first place?
Love? Forgiveness? Someone to look at her like she mattered?
Maybe just someone to say her name like it meant something.
She reached out, touched the mirror lightly with her fingertips. It was cool beneath her skin. She wasn't sure what she was reaching for—some earlier version of herself, maybe. Someone simpler. Braver. Kinder.
Whole.
"You're lost, love," she murmured, voice catching. Not cruel. Not self-pitying either. Just… honest. Quiet. Like it had been waiting to be said for a long time.
That voice in her head had grown louder of late. Not spiteful—just tired. It didn't bother dressing things up anymore. It told her what she already knew: she wasn't healing. She was hiding. Hotel rooms and well-rehearsed smiles weren't freedom. Just prisons with prettier wallpaper.
Still—today had to be different. She decided it would be.
She straightened. Not much. Just enough.
Today, she'd choose who she was. Even if only for a little while. Even if it was pretend.
She slipped into the black dress like stepping into a role. It clung in the right places—familiar, forgiving. Her lips were painted red. Not subtle. Not safe. Bold. Warpaint.
Her reflection smiled back, crooked and fierce. A woman who looked like she knew exactly what she was doing. Even if she hadn't the faintest clue.
It wasn't real.
But sometimes, pretending was enough.
"Let's get this over with," she muttered and shoved a bit of steel into the words.
Outside, the Muggle street buzzed with life. Cars, chatter, the hum of a distant radio. Tonks stepped into it like it was a stage. With a flick of her wand, her hair turned golden—long, glossy, and dazzling under the afternoon light.
Heads turned. She felt it.
She fed on it. Just a little. Enough to remember she was still visible. Still here.
Her heels clacked against the pavement in rhythm with the city's pulse. She walked with purpose. Like she had somewhere to be. Like she meant to be seen.
Inside, though, she trembled. The confidence was a paper-thin veil stretched over old bruises. But she kept moving. She always did. Because stopping meant thinking. And thinking was dangerous.
What's under all this? She wondered.
Under the magic. The lipstick. The lies?
Maybe nothing. Maybe just the tired girl who whispered truths to a mirror. Maybe something cracked. Still soft in places. Still hoping.
A voice called from the pavement. "Oi, gorgeous!"
She turned, smile ready. Polished. Perfect. Nothing real.
"You're stunning," the man said, grinning.
"Thanks," she replied smoothly. "You're not too terrible yourself."
He laughed. So did she. Because that was the script. That was the part.
She slipped back into the act like it was second nature. Flirty. Confident. Untouchable. Just another stranger. Just another day.
But something inside her flinched. Barely a flicker. Shame, maybe. Or grief. It passed.
Is this it, then?
Is this all there'll ever be?
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Not tonight.
The man said something. She didn't really hear it. Still, she smiled. She played the part.
Her footsteps grew heavier, though. And the laugh didn't quite reach her eyes.
But she kept walking. One foot, then the other.
Still here. Still upright.
Bruised, yes.
Cracked, certainly.
But not gone.
Remus Lupin sat rigidly at a polished iron table on the fringe of a spotless Muggle café, tucked between glassy shopfronts and boutiques far too glossy for comfort. The whole street shimmered with that curated kind of wealth—everything gleamed, even the cobblestones, as though scrubbed for show. It made his teeth itch.
He wore his best suit. Charcoal grey, crisply pressed. He'd sponged it clean himself, patched a seam near the cuff, and even shined his shoes. But it still felt like a disguise. The collar sat too stiff against his throat, the jacket too tight across his shoulders, like it wasn't built for him—or he wasn't built for it. Either way, it itched in the way things do when you know you don't belong.
He glanced at the passers-by—well-dressed Muggles with shiny hair and relaxed shoulders, gliding from shop to shop with bags swinging at their sides, laughter light on the breeze. People with plans. People untouched by war or monthly transformations. They looked whole. Solid. Unburdened.
He shifted in his seat, rubbing his palms down his thighs beneath the table. His stomach turned at the scent of garlic and butter drifting from the kitchen behind him. Too rich. Too indulgent. He hadn't eaten. Couldn't, really. Not when every part of him was knotted tight with dread.
Then—
"Remus!"
Lily Potter's voice cut across the air, warm and familiar, and for a moment the tightness in his chest loosened. He stood, automatically, before she reached the table, her hair a brilliant sweep of copper in the sunlight. She moved briskly, with that easy confidence she'd always had—sharp, bright, and full of life.
"You look like you're about to be called in for questioning," she said, dropping into the seat opposite with a smirk. "I thought this was lunch, not an interrogation."
He smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You know me. I thrive under pressure."
Lily snorted. "You thrive under a stack of overdue essays and two cups of tea."
He chuckled softly. The sound felt foreign in his mouth. Still, being around Lily was like stepping into sunlight after a stretch of fog. She had that effect—on everyone, really, but especially on him. She made space feel easier somehow, like he didn't have to defend every inch of himself.
She launched straight into a story about Harry's latest broom escapade—something involving a near miss with a washing line and a very cross cat. Remus tried to listen; he really did. But his mind snagged elsewhere.
A flicker of movement inside the café caught his eye.
There, seated by the window—a woman. Alone. Elegant. She wore a black dress that fit her like it had been spelt into place. Her blonde hair was swept back, effortless and precise, like everything else about her. One leg crossed over the other. A glass of something clear and sharp in her hand. She wasn't eating.
She was watching.
And her eyes were on him.
Remus looked away at once, throat tightening. There'd been nothing warm in that gaze. No curiosity. No recognition. Just… something cold. Detached. The way you look at a puzzle missing too many pieces. He ducked his head, heart thudding.
He didn't know her. He was sure of that. But something in the look unsettled him. Not fear, exactly. Closer to shame. Like she saw something he'd spent years trying to hide.
You don't belong here, the look seemed to say.
You never did.
He swallowed and tried to focus on Lily's voice, but it was distant now, like she was speaking through water.
That woman belonged in this place—this polished, curated world. She belonged to light linen, to perfume that never wore off, and to lives without scars or apologies. She didn't wake in cold sweats or flinch from silver cutlery. She didn't ration kindness like it might run out.
Remus rubbed his thumb over the edge of the menu. It felt like a prop. Like all of this was a set, and someone was going to call "cut" at any moment.
Twenty-nine. That's all he was. But he felt ancient. The kind of old that lived in the bones, that didn't show in your hair but wore at your soul. He'd lived enough loss to last several lifetimes. And still, somehow, it never got any easier to carry.
His thoughts slid—uninvited—back to St Mungo's. The little office was tucked near the end of the corridor. Too bright. Too clean. That antiseptic sort of silence. The healer had spoken gently, as though Remus were something fragile in her hands. He remembered the way her lips moved. The words:
"It's a brain tumour."
Just like that.
No preamble, no gentle lead-in. As if it were a missed appointment or a change in the weather—nothing more than a logistical nuisance.
Remus hadn't answered at first. Couldn't. The words had struck like a silent spell, freezing him in place. His ears buzzed faintly. His palms had gone slick against the worn arms of the chair. He remembered nodding, because that's what you did when someone said something serious, but the words hadn't really landed yet. Not properly.
The healer had gone on—efficient, composed.
"This type can become malignant. It can impact cognitive function—memory, decision-making, and speech. Median survival is approximately two years. We'll need to operate."
Remus had latched onto the one thread that mattered. Will surgery cure it?
He'd spoken quickly, as though if he asked fast enough, he might outrun the answer.
It came after the smallest pause.
"No. We can reduce it. But we can't guarantee it won't return."
That was the moment the bottom dropped out. Not the diagnosis. Not the timeline.
Can't guarantee it.
He knew that feeling intimately. It was the essence of his life. That slow, sickening uncertainty that came with being bitten, being branded. No absolutes. No certainties. No safety.
Just endurance.
He'd left in a daze, the hallway spinning faintly around him as he passed glass doors and bustling mediwitches. Then—plastic chairs. Blue. Cracked at the corners. He'd sat, back curved, shoulders slumped, like his body knew something he hadn't yet accepted.
He couldn't even feel the weight of his own wand in his pocket.
The floor, he remembered, had strange scuff marks on the tiles. He'd focused on them and tried to anchor himself. This is real. I'm sitting. I'm breathing. I'm alive. But nothing held.
And then—crying.
A girl's sobs. Young, barely into her teens. Quiet, but sharp—clean, splintering sounds that rang across the sterile waiting area. Her mother crouched beside her, murmuring something low and steady. Trying, like all parents did in hospitals, to sound brave when they were terrified.
Remus looked up. Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Her tear-streaked face said everything—fear, confusion, helplessness. That particular kind of grief that came from knowing something awful had happened, but not understanding the full shape of it yet.
In her, he saw himself. Not as he was now, but as he had been. Nine years old. Alone in a hospital corridor. Blood still drying on his skin. His parents arguing just out of earshot. The world had shifted, and no one had explained why.
This isn't about dying, he thought.
He wasn't afraid of that. Not truly. He'd lived too close to death for too long to fear it now.
What chilled him was the thought of being forgotten. Of slipping quietly out of the world like fog from a windowpane. No imprint. No weight left behind. Just a file in a drawer. A name no one said out loud anymore.
That was it, wasn't it?
He didn't want to disappear without having mattered.
The café around him buzzed on. Cutlery clinked. A spoon stirred. Someone laughed behind a newspaper. Somewhere nearby, Lily was still talking, her voice tinged with worry now.
But Remus couldn't meet her eyes.
Not yet.
Across the street, through the café window, the woman was laughing now—tilting her head towards a silver-haired man in a linen coat. Her smile was easy. Polished. The kind people wore without thinking. Like she'd never had to fight to be in a room. Never had to apologise for the air she took up.
He watched her for a moment longer, then looked away.
That flicker came again. A tug in the chest. Not longing—not quite. Something stranger. Older. A breath of memory. Recognition?
No. It couldn't be.
His mind had started playing tricks in recent months. Familiar voices where there were none. Faces in crowds that turned out to be strangers. Ghosts conjured by exhaustion or something deeper. He blinked. The light shifted. Her face blurred just enough to break the illusion.
It wasn't her.
It wasn't the girl.
He let out a slow breath through his nose and rubbed the heel of his hand against his temple.
The fog was back. Not pain, exactly. Just a pressure, sitting heavy behind his eyes. The same dull weight he'd been carrying for weeks, though now it had a name.
He hadn't told anyone yet.
He didn't know how.
What would I even say?
I'm dying?
I might forget your name?
I don't want to be alone at the end?
Too dramatic. Too selfish. Too soon.
So he tucked the truth back into the quiet space behind his ribs—next to the rest of it. The guilt. The fear. The endless what-ifs. Let it settle there. Let it ache.
But he handed Lily the envelope without a word.
Just parchment and ink, official lettering printed with ministry precision. Bureaucracy dressed as finality. But in his hands, it felt heavier. Not paper—weight. Like holding a wand pointed at himself.
He'd filled it in the night before. Alone. Methodical. Detached. Signed every line as though it belonged to someone else. The ink had barely dried before he sealed it.
They'd spoken of it once, he and Lily. One of those quiet, unlit conversations you have when the world feels a little too sharp and you pretend you're only tired. She'd nodded when he said it was better to be prepared, just in case. Neither of them had said what they were really afraid of.
But now, in daylight, the seal broken by her careful fingers, it felt altogether different.
Final. Real.
She unfolded the parchment slowly, like it might disintegrate if touched too quickly. Her eyes scanned it once, then stopped.
DEATH REGISTRATION: REMUS JOHN LUPIN.
He saw it the moment it landed. She didn't gasp. She didn't cry out. Just stilled.
All the colour drained from her face. A small tremble in her hands. That was all. But he saw it. He always saw the quiet things.
Then it came.
Grief, not as spectacle, but as presence. Silent. Immovable. Like fog rolling in across the lake. It settled in her shoulders, her spine, and her throat. It lived there now.
She held the paper a moment longer, eyes fixed as if staring hard enough might will the words into something else. Something reversible. But magic couldn't touch this kind of spellwork. Not the sort written in ink and law and inevitability.
He didn't move.
Couldn't.
Guilt crept up his chest like ivy, coiling fast and tight. He hadn't meant to hurt her—never her. But he needed someone to know. To see it, all of it. The shape of the end. The small, crumpled truth he carried in private.
And Lily had always seen him. Not the professor. Not the werewolf. Just Remus.
The world pressed in again: the scrape of a chair, the clink of cutlery, the clatter of laughter from somewhere to the left. Muggle life, oblivious and blithe, folding itself around their stillness.
She refolded the parchment with slow, precise movements. Slipped it back into its envelope. Her fingers lingered on the seal before she looked up.
No words.
Just her eyes.
In them: confusion, sorrow, a flicker of rage—not wild, but steady. And beneath it all, unwavering: love. That fierce, loyal kind that had stood through everything.
"Remus," she said softly.
His name was a touch in her mouth. Gentle. Undone.
It nearly broke him.
She wanted to say something more—he saw the words gathering behind her lips—but what was left? There were no spells for this. No charm for grief. Just the living of it.
Still, something between them held. Wordless. Solid.
He wished, for a heartbeat, that he could pause the moment. Just this. Sit in the hush with Lily across from him, in the corner of a noisy, sunlit world that hadn't noticed them yet. No tumour. No curse. No ticking clock.
But time doesn't wait for wishing.
She rose slowly, like someone waking from a dream they couldn't change. As she passed him, her hand brushed his forearm—light, but anchoring.
He felt it all through his chest: the goodbye, the grief, the promise buried somewhere in the quiet.
Then she turned and walked away.
He watched her until she vanished into the shifting crowd.
And then—he stayed.
He always did.